I can’t get the words out—I just have to get away. Panting hard, my pulse hammering like a—just a THING THAT HAMMERS, OKAY—I yank myself free of him and dive behind the sofa.
“Cammie.” Hunter rushes around and kneels beside me. “What the fuck’s wrong with you?”
“I…I…” I wheeze. How can I possibly tell him about this? He’ll leave me. He’ll think I’m such a weirdo. Only Archer and Enid ever understood about the cupboard. “Dinosaurs,” I manage in a croaky little voice.
“You have a dinosaur phobia?”
I barely manage to nod. Rocking in a corner sure is tempting. God damn you, modern décor with your placement of furniture so far from corners! Instead, I put my elbows by my sides and raise my forearms with crooked hands in a deformed attempt to impersonate a T-Rex. “Grraaar.”
Hunter leans over the sofa and uses the remote to switch the TV off. “There, there. It’s all gone away, gosling. Nothing to panic about.”
I wrap my arms around my knees and begin rocking anyway.
“Cammie.” He sits beside me and leans in for an enveloping hug. The split running down his rawker onesie hangs open a bit so I get a good view of his tattoo. And his pubes. “Is there something you want to tell me?”
“No,” I snort.
“I think someone’s pants are on fire,” he purrs.
I glance down, terrified, whilst simultaneously sniffing the air for smoke. “Whuh?”
“Not actually on fire, gosling. It’s a saying. You know, liar liar, pants on fire.”
“Oh.” I sniff, still rocking. “You’re not very good at this comforting thing.”
He glances about, looking dubious. “I’m British.”
“Do you have anything you want to….tell me?”
“What are you getting at?”
“You’re asking me to bare my soul, Hunter. But you won’t bare yours.”
“Yeah.” He grins The Grin. “You know…you had me at bare.”
I sigh, folding my arms and swivelling away on my butt.
“I made it all up,” he insists. “I have no dark secret, really, but I felt like it was important to conform to the stereotype. Girls like it when you’re fucked in the head.”
“True. But now whose pants are on fire, huh? You were talking about your mom after you got knocked out last night!”
He pauses, his eyes darting about. “Was I?”
“Yes.”
“I was obviously delirious.”
“You were traumatized. You sounded like a little boy.”
“I was probably practicing my falsetto,” he goes on. “I do that sometimes. In my sleep.”
“You are LYING.”
“Ooh.” He leans in with playful eyes, his tousled hair falling into them. That can’t be comfortable. “Is this our first fight? You know what that means, don’t you, gosling?”
“Uh…no?” Please don’t let him take Goodreads away!
He gives me a devilish smile. “Make-up sex.”
“But…but my test,” I say. “It didn’t come back.”
“I suppose we could always use a condom,” he muses, “but that feels a bit too much like wasting an excuse for conflict.”
“True.”
“Not a problem.” He whips out his iPhone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m consulting Dr Google.”
I scoot beside him to peer over his shoulder. “What?”
“I’m searching for anal thrush. I’m like, is that even a thing?”
I blink. My heart thumps. My butt hole thumps, throbs, and then thumps some more. “I’m sorry. Did you say anal?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You have a problem with it?”
Um, yes. I have a problem with him mashing anything remotely cylindrical into a hole where things only go out. Also, poop. I mean…ew.
“I bought all of your virginities last night, and don’t think for a second I won’t be taking advantage of them. You know,” Hunter says, reaching for my hand, “I love the idea of banging you up the arse. Lemme see now…paging Dr Penis!” He presses my hand over the engorged cock tenting his onesie. “Hmm. Diagnosis boner.”
“Sounds like one of your old songs,” I mutter, trying very hard not to smile.
“Oh, you want me to sing, do you? Is that how this works?”
“You’re the alpha hero,” I retort. “You’re meant to tell me how it works.”
“So I am. Hmm.” He takes a deep breath, and begins to sing. “Hey, I just bought you, and this is crazy, but here’s a stiff one, felate it maybe?”
I give his cock a light swat, and he groans. “Great. It’s Hunter von Gangnam Styles.”
“Like I’ve never heard that one.” His phone beeps. “Ah, fuck.”
“What?”
“Anal thrush. Definitely a thing,” he says forlornly.
“Oh.” I nudge his shoulder and he shows me the screen. “Bleugh.”
“Paging Dr Penis! Dr Penis, come back!” He feigns tears. “Quick, he needs mouth to mouth.”
I cough. “He doesn’t have a mouth.”
“Mouth to meatus.”
“Does he fancy a scone?”
“You know, I’ve never met a girl who talks as much as you, gosling.” He strokes a thumb down my cheek. “Sure, I’ve met girls with self-esteem levels that are massively disproportionate to their level of attractiveness. Girls who are shockingly clumsy in a cute, dumb kind of way—more clumsy than I thought possible. But nobody ever got a pet dead octopus just to impress me. Nobody ever ignored me just so she could check her Goodreads account, or read a book. Nobody ever dressed up as an erotic Gruffalo just because she knows I have a furry onesie fetish. You, Cammibelle Hicks, are something else.”
I blush deeply in both sets of cheeks. “Oh, Hunter.”
“So I suppose we’re still waiting for the sex. And we can’t watch the dinosaurs for a frankly unconvincing reason. But I just want to be with you—tonight, nobody can take it away from us.”
“Take what away?”
“It.”
“It…?”
“You know.” He gives a knowing nod. “It.”
“Right.” I do not know.
“Want to curl up with Ryan Gosling and watch the Kardashians?”
I can’t fight the smile that spreads slowly across my face. “Do I ever!”
* * *
My cell phone rings in the dim light of the moon that spills over Hunter’s bed. At first, I’m massively annoyed to be woken, but then I realize that I get to do curwning. All is not lost.
“Y’ellow?” I mumble into the receiver.
“Ginger?” hisses Labron.
“Oh hey. ‘Sup bitch?”
“Yeah. Not now. Have you heard anything from outside the window?”
I pull myself up to sitting, rub my eyes, and peer over at the large arched window. “Don’t think so.” Beside me, naked and gorgeous Hunter rolls over and gives off a single, loud snore. He’s even more tousled when asleep.
“Okay.” Labron takes a deep breath. “There’s something I need to tell you.”
“Is it Sparkles? Is he still harassing Gaga on Twitter?”
“It’s actually worse than that.”
My heart stops. “Oh God. Labron. What is it?”
He clicks his tongue against his teeth. “There are paparazzi outside. For Hunter.”
“Like, photographers and stuff?” I say in disbelief. “But they don’t follow him anymore. He turned his back on fame.”
Labron gives a bitter little laugh. “And fame done fucked his ass. There are like, three reporters outside. And Perez Hilton.”
“Seriously?”
“Uhuh. Thing is…Eine Richtung have announced that they’re reforming.”
Now I sit bolt upright. “What? But Hunter didn’t mention anything, he—”
“Because he doesn’t know. They’re doing it without him.”
I can barely breathe. This is bad, very bad. “How can they possi
bly do that?”
“They’ve drafted in Darren Hayes to replace Hunter. Calling themselves Savage Richtung,” says Labron, his tone pitiful. “Cammie, we’re fucked. This will break him entirely.”
“But he loves Darren Hayes,” I whisper.
“Not anymore,” Labron snipes. “Not anymore.”
What the chips do I do? “You’re the help. Suggest some help!”
“Dang, Ginger—I’m his best friend. Not his motherfucking butler. Could you be any more offensive?”
I cock my head. “I’ve got a few dead baby jokes, if that’s your thing.”
He gives an exhausted sigh. “Look. When Hunter wakes up, don’t let him read the news or turn on the TV, or anything. This is all over the media. Keep him busy while I figure something out.”
“I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
“Keep him busy. Because I might have the thrush,” I say.
“First: hashtag TMI. Seriously. And second: ever heard of a blow job? Or just a plain ol’ hand shandy, whatever. Do the unicorn right in front of him, for all I care. But you do not leave that room until I come for you guys. Do you understand?”
“Yeah,” I say meekly.
“Okay. You can go back to sleep now. Sorry I interrupted you.”
“This time tomorrow,” I whimper, “we’ll all be sorry.”
Do the unicorn right in front of him.
So how would that—
No, no. God.
But maybe…I mean, his horn is kind of big, and he’s got that strangely alluring mean thing going—
NO, Cammie. Just NO.
* * *
“Gosling?”
I roll over in Hunter’s bed and slap my hand up to wipe drool from my cheek. “Whuh?”
He’s sitting up in bed, the sheets puddled in his lap, and is staring down with a proud smile. “I’ve got morning glory. Come on, have a feel—it’s throbbing, seriously.”
I’m trying to sleep. Hunter, you’re lovely, but I’m an independent woman with my own mind, and I vant to be alone.
Plus I’m trying really hard to hold a fart in, and one wrong move will release the beast.
He grabs my hand, drags it toward his crotch. “You wanted me to bare myself to you and all that shit. Well here I fucking am, sunshine.”
I blink the grogginess from my eyes as my hand closes around something best described as a tube of Pringles.
It is not a tube of Pringles.
I have to admit, nothing wakes you up quicker than realising your boyfriend is packing a whole football team’s share of penis.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he whispers, sinking further into the mattress to press his cock harder into my stiff palm. “Blimey. How did he grow this monster?”
“S-something like that,” I manage.
Hunter now has his best Anchorman voice on. “And you’re thinking, how will he take my virginity without smashing through my ovaries like an episode of Extreme Pelvic Makeover?”
As he talks, his cock smacks heavily against my hand. Like it has a life of its own. My girlcore contracts along with it. There’s sexual dubstep in my panties—is this worrying? Or is it a Billboard hit waiting to happen?
“Gosling,” he murmurs, “don’t you want to say good morning to WOMOC?”
Yes. No. “How…how do I, uh, go about that?”
He drapes an arm around my shoulder and rests his fingers on the back of my neck. Then he begins to press. “You put him in your mouth. Right the way down. And then you say, good morning, over and over and over…”
He trails off as I sink down. His purple hammer head looms close to my face, and I gulp, thick in the thrall of panic. I’ve never given a blow job in my life, and it doesn’t happen all that often in the novels I read. Come to think of it, now my entire bookshelf is flashing before my eyes in this moment of truth, there’s not much oral in many of them. And now look at me: 0.8 inches from my boyfriend’s pork helmet, and more chance of making fetch happen than actually making him come.
I’m about to just close my eyes and headbutt his cock when a shout rings out from beneath the window. Hunter startles, grabbing a handful of my tousled hair and easing my head back.
“What the fuck was that?” he hisses.
For a second, I’m as clueless as him. Only then do I remember Labron’s phone call at ridonkulous o’clock, and as a sinking feeling invades my stomach, I freeze.
Savage Richtung.
Paparazzi.
Perez fucking Hilton.
SUPERPOOP.
“I-I don’t know what that was,” I stutter. I need to dig down deep, move past the cupboard, and pull some serious distraction out of the bag. My first thought is to just let that fart go, but I’m slightly terrified of following through. So I just keep staring at his boner.
Another shout from outside. “Hunter!” yells a deep voice. “We know you’re in there, Hunter!”
Hunter’s face falls. He looks utterly spooked. “That had better not be what I think it is.”
“And what…do…you think it is?” Think, Cammie! Think! What would Eva Trammell do?
Hunter shifts uncomfortably, rubbing the hair from his eyes. His breathing quickens as his anxiety builds. I don’t care what he tried to tell me last night; he was lying. Dude is packed with issues and just like Labron said, they’re all about to fizz over.
“Mr von Styles!” Somebody thumps loudly on the back entrance. We both jump. “We just want to ask a few questions!”
The solution hits me in a slow reveal. There’s really only one thing for it.
“I don’t believe this,” he says through his teeth. “I don’t—GUAAAAARGH!”
I ram my mouth over his cock, choking on the shaft as I sink my teeth in. Hunter loves it primal, and I’m ready to give him everything I’ve got.
“Gosling!” he shrieks, waggling his crotch like a boyband member. “What are you—-FNGGGARGH!—I can’t take anymore!”
I chomp noisily, channelling Sparkles eating Rule last night. Then I look up to give him my sexy eyes. “Mmph?” I say through a mouthful of penis flesh.
“I said, stoppit!” he wails. A vein bulges on his forehead.
Wow, he can barely take a few strokes. I’m good.
I ease his spam ram out of my throat, taking care to lick the teeth marks like a mother cat grooming a kitten. “Mmm,” I say in my best hungry voice.
“I told you to say good morning, not raise a fucking blitzkrieg siren!” He cradles his bruised member in his big hands. “Why would you do that to the WOMOC? Why?”
Oh. I see.
I wasn’t meant to use my teeth.
“Right,” I mumble, embarrassed. “So that’s why they don’t call it a chew job.”
“Just FYI,” he groans, “you don’t actually blow, either.”
“Duly noted.”
“And be very gentle with the balls. And the gooch. Keep your teeth for everything above my waist, basically.”
Mortifying oral sex lesson from my highly experienced boyfriend. I want the ground to just swallow me up, but I’m on the bed, so failsies. Is it wrong that I kind of wish I’d just let him look out of the window?
The cupboard looms, its wooden doors falling open and banging shut again. Last night’s cartoon dinosaurs cackle at me and flash their carnivorous fangs. I’ve gone from humiliation to complete and utter panic in the space of about ten seconds, and now the cupboard is closing in, the stunted T-Rex arms waving, the boyish chortles ringing in my ears until—
“Fucking photographers!” Hunter seethes, slamming the window down. Because, you know, he’s right next to the window.
“Mr von Styles!” a photographer yells, “how do you feel about your band reforming without you?”
Hunter freezes, and then yanks the window up again. He appears to have forgotten that he’s naked and that his cock is virtually flapping in the breeze. “What did you say?”
“The Eine Richtung reunion,” someone calls. “
Do you support their decision to continue without you?”
All I can hear are the clicks of flashing cameras, the echoing shouts. Hunter is deadly silent, his knuckles turning white as they clasp the window ledge so hard I fear it will disintegrate in his hands. Did you ever make one of those vinegar and baking soda rockets when you were a kid? Right now, it feels like Hunter is exactly like one of those rockets waiting to explode—and not just because of the way his rock hard ham tampon is thwacking against the ledge.
It seems that he turns to me in slow motion. “Did you hear that?” he says weakly.
“Um…I’d ignore them if I were you.”
“Ignore the crowd of paparazzi outside my house? Really?” He gestures with a sharp finger. “There are like, five of them out there, gosling! Five! One of them’s from the fucking Huffington Post!”
“Five. Wow, uh, that’s something.” I tug the sheet around myself, thinking that if I can just get it over my head in a subtle fashion, this will all go away.
“Hunter!” shouts Perez Hilton, “you’re not looking so fabulous!”
Hunter grabs his own hair in handfuls, furious. “Why don’t you all FUCK THE FUCK OFF?” And then he slams the window down again. “EEEEEEaaaaaaooooooogh!” Right on to his cock.
“Oh gosh!” I squeal, rushing over to help in a twisted mess of bed sheet.
Still making that strange high-pitched noise, he eases the window up a couple inches and gingerly removes his penis. It lands against his thigh, squished, with a pathetic little smack.
I put a hand on his shoulder and walk him away from the window. “Poor baby. Shall I ask Labron to get some ice?”
“Please,” he says, almost tearfully.
I dip back to yank the drapes closed. Take that, small but notable group of reporters! Then I re-wrap myself in the sheet so I can actually walk properly, and head over to the bed stand to find my cell phone.
Hunter, still butt naked, pulls his knees up and begins to gently rock. “Reformed? Without me?” he whispers. He sounds like a small boy.
“Labron?” I say as he picks up.
“Please tell me Hunter doesn’t know about the damn reporters,” he says dryly.
“Okay. Hunter doesn’t know about the reporters.”
He exhales. “Thank the baby Jesus.”
Tousle Me Page 14
